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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27156808">The Lady's Choice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithacanonymous/pseuds/Ithacanonymous'>Ithacanonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Constipation, F/M, Femdom, Idiots in Love, It Gets Kinky Folks, Regency, Regency Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:28:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27156808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithacanonymous/pseuds/Ithacanonymous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the Season of 1814, and the widowed Lady Jane Winewood has finally returned to London for one purpose: to find a lover. Marriage did not suit her once, and she intends never to tie herself to another man again.</p><p>Naturally, destiny sees this as a challenge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. in which there is a ball</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>!!!!!!</p><p>I am so excited to finally post this. You have no idea. Ok, so a couple notes:</p><p>1. If you're expecting this to be PWP, you will be disappointed. I love Plot. It enhances the spiciness of the Porn imo.</p><p>2. You may not like Lady Jane at first. That is ok. She's on what we in the business (the, uh, business of writing Jane I guess) call "completely out of touch with her emotions." It's pretty fun. &gt;:)</p><p>3. If something you see seems like a nod to a regency novel you've read, it likely is. This is my love letter to the genre.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>17 April 1814</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The scene was like any other from the past month, excepting those few with Fashion Mishaps (remembering a certain Lady M’s lovely lace giving way to rather much lacier unmentionables...) and Scandals resulting in special licenses. It was a ball given by Mrs T. Known for her good housekeeping sense and duly terrible table at balls, it was typical. The lemonade was undrinkable, the air overhumid despite the chill night, and the company positively banal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then, like a shooting star across the sky, swathed in blue and a diamond parure. My dear reader, she has returned.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Jane Winewood read the single sheet of paper delivered with her morning tray as though it was as necessary to her nourishment as the hot tea and toast. Crowded close with words, she had known the moment she saw what it would say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her return to London, and more importantly, to the Season, had not gone unmarked. Indeed, the anonymous gossip columnist had lauded her. Jane sank back into the sheets, satisfied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had planned for weeks the dress — modest but revealing a hint of décolletage, the gloves like gossamer, the touch of rouge applied to her cheeks and lips. And to set it all off: the show-stopping parure of diamond circling her neck, sparkling at her ears, twinned at her wrists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had returned, and with purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Jane Winewood intended to find a lover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting the sheet down and picking up a triangle of toast, Jane thought of her past. Lord Winewood had gifted her with a title and an unentailed fortune, but little else. She had no memories to warm the lonely nights, only the reminiscences of laying underneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had been friends of a sort, she and her late husband, but he had chosen her for her hips and bosom rather than any true affection. Her family had had enough standing for the proposal to avoid a whisper of scandal, and she was a promising choice to mother his heirs. And Jane? Jane was pragmatic. She had known she would never receive a better offer. She’d thought she could find a lover, perhaps in Italy or France, once she’d dutifully produced an heir or two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fate thought otherwise. Within seven years, Jane was the Winewood widow. She had one son, James, she doted on faithfully, nurturing like a vine to take his place in due course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jane was bored. And widows were ignored in the way virginal debutantes were not. Widows could be caught in the hothouse having a rose of some form or other tended to and not receive nearly the censure other women might.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She let that confidence cloak her. And she looked heavenly in blue. By arriving just when the Season began to pick up, she avoided the overeager men seeking a comfortable wife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane intended never to marry again. But still, her fingers itched... She looked at the long ties of her curtain sash and imagined taking them and tying a man’s arms down, leaving only her own wishes. Leaving no chance of lying back in boredom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wanted to play.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>19 April 1814</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Those who misbehave are often the most divine dancers. Have not you noticed, dear ton? Many a rake and merry widow have captured hearts over a waltz. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been the work of an afternoon to refresh her entrance invitation to Almack’s. Seven years’ absence had not dulled the knowledge that a venue such as this would be a fertile hunting ground for a lover. Or, if not that, at least some good gossip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane entered Almack’s alone, voucher in hand. Widows did not need chaperones, and she was not the sort of woman to require a bosom friend or two to muster up the courage to enter a ballroom. Having fond acquaintances across the ton was useful (case in point: securing her Almack's voucher for the night from one of the hostesses, an old friend of Jane’s dear-departed mama), and thus, Jane laid her charm where needed like fairy magick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she crossed the entrance to the ballroom proper, her mind was on both past and future. Lord Winewood had been... fine. He had served her purposes, and she had faithfully served his. She could not complain about him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she had missed this. She had missed the crush of people, the whispers, the gossip. Lord W had preferred the country, and so Jane had stayed with her embroidery and her flower-arranging and her harpsichord, and if she complained, she did so only to her few close friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>London as a widow was even better than as an unmarried miss. With her paints, her rouge, her daringly bold dress, Jane cut a line through the room. The orchestra was beginning a minuet, and her good friend Mrs Mary Abernathy was surveying the room with a critical eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is the standout this year, my dear?” Mary and Jane had long since stood on little ceremony when in casual company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary twitched her mouth to the side. “I believe it is Miss Featherstonehaugh just there,” she said, gesturing with her fan to a delicate blond enduring the minuet with a gentleman at least thrice her age.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A likely candidate, I should say,” Jane agreed. “Have you long arrived?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have been here, oh, twenty minutes. You know as well as I it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>gauche</span>
  </em>
  <span> to arrive on time to these </span>
  <em>
    <span>fêtes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, no matter how the hostesses try to convince you otherwise.” Mary looked to Jane, noting her ensemble with her analytical eye. “You look lovely, but that is no surprise. Beginning the hunt tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary was one of the few people Jane allowed close to her heart and mind, and one of the many she had exchanged letters with through the tedium of internment at Winewood Hall. As such, she was long since appraised of Jane’s plans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane smiled. “Yes, I do believe so. It’s a sensible place to do so, and you know I am of all things...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snatched a glass of lukewarm champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and downed a healthy amount in one sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... quite sensible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary shook her head, but smiled a little. “I admit, I am glad you’ve kept your spirits. I wondered if my sprightly Jane would be the same as she was in our girlhood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No man may alter me with his presence or without, Mary, you know this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane paused, then added, “Save my darling James, of course. But he has a few years yet until he qualifies as a man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True enough,” Mary said. “I shall have to recommend the portraitist I used for my George to you. It will be lovely to remember them as so little and sweet when they try us as they grow into men, will it not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few moments of chit-chat, Jane struck. “I know you enjoy keeping watch of the eligible young ladies for your own little bets with yourself on who will make the best match...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have I any intelligence on a handsome second or third son? Is that what you’re hedging around?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jane admitted. “This is only my second outing, as you well know. I am still getting the lay of the land, so to speak. The landscape is so changed from when I was last here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary laughed softly. “Time will do that, yes. Bless you, Jane, you know I do not keep watch of young gentlemen the way you do. I will keep my ears and eyes open for any that seem in need of a womanly touch, though. I daresay you will have better luck than I would, anyway. Your beauty has not faded at all!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are too kind,” Jane demurred, though inwardly she purred. Her mother had taught her practically since birth to slather herself in cold cream every night, and it showed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not,” Mary said tartly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will not deny that,” Jane said, and they burst into laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A handful of dances had gone by as they’d stood with the matrons, a purposeful row or two back from the young ladies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me, I believe I will take a turn of the room,” Jane said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spoke to a red-faced Lord Marlborough of politics, frail Mrs Redding of her two young great-grandchildren in Cornwall, and snobby Mr Whistler for his impeccable gossip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was as she was turning away to playfully laugh into her fan that she saw A Most Promising Sight at the refreshments table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giving Mr Whistler her regards (and an invitation to call upon her for further gossip over tea),  Lady Jane Winewood embarked on what she decided was a most holy mission, if your god was the god of future pleasures.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For she had spotted a clearly young gentleman in a bottle-green jacket. It was new. He was tugging at the cuffs, likely just altered, as he surveyed the meager selections of Almack's table. His unfashionably long brown hair brushed his collar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was promising about him? Was it the posture? Sweetly vulnerable he seemed, with broad shoulders. She set her own as she reached his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would not recommend the watercress,” she said, enjoying how he jumped slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, excuse me,” the gentleman said. “I can move if you wish. Are you — Would you care for —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no,” Jane demurred. “I am here simply to warn you off the watercress. You seemed perilously close to choosing it. A certain gentleman partook of it in legend,” she said, sotto voce, “and they say he was never seen again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “They did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at her gravely for a moment, and suddenly broke out into a cheerful smile. “I thank you for warning me off, then. Might I know the name of my kind savior?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, it was unforgivably rude of me not to lead with that. Priorities, you understand,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. “I am Lady Winewood.” She gave him a light curtsy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He responded with a short bow. “A pleasure to meet you. I am Mr Redding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a Cornish Redding? I just spoke to Mrs Redding of her great-grandchildren.” Jane went through her mental planner, where she kept notes on interesting people she met. Redding, Redding... a manor on the coast, large family, several children... Had this gentleman been in short pants when last she was in London? That was an unappealing thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am a Cornish Redding,” he said. “Undoubtedly that was my grandmother. We Reddings descended upon Almack’s in force tonight. There’s her, my mother, my brother Mr Redding, my other brother Mr Redding, their wives, and my younger sister Miss Roslyn Redding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure Cornwall misses you all.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Since that’s about half the population gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jane added in her head. Were there five or six children grown?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a nice smile. “As I miss them, I’m sure. Apart from Eton and Cambridge, I’ve never left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this your first trip to London, Mr Redding?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is. Do you live here? Or have a house, really. I’m so used to just calling Sand Hill home I forgot there’s Redding House here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wet behind the ears, aren’t you? Jane thought. Despite herself, she found it charming. The trick to London — to the ton — was to fashion a masque of propriety and decency and wear it at all times, even when one was dirtying one’s good name. Not that Jane knew about that. (She has been wild her first go-round in London. It was a miracle she had not been caught in scandal.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a house here, yes. I only recently arrived from the country myself after an extended stay. My late husband was terribly fond of the country,” Jane said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry to hear of your loss,” Mr Redding said automatically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane nodded acknowledgement. “He has been gone these two years now. It did not seem right to mourn him here in London, so I stayed with my son in the country for the duration. I confess, it is wonderful to be back in the city.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know only a few streets of London thus far, but what I have seen is hustle and bustle. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen! And I thought Cambridge was a huge city.” It was at this exact point that Mr Redding seemed to notice he was speaking to a woman, his mouth shutting with a snap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane watched as his eyes widened slightly. It had taken him this long to notice she was young, lovely, and speaking to him. How precious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am so sorry, it just occurred to me to ask: Would you care to dance, Lady Winewood?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having approached him hoping for exactly this outcome, she smiled. “I would be delighted. I believe it is a quadrille next. Come find me when this set ends; I shall be sure to make myself very visible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bowed, and flushed to the roots of his hair. She could only assume that, having established she was a woman, he had further established she was a woman of certain assets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane kindly said nothing to rebuke him, and the poor man scuttled off almost before she would have had the opportunity to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What an innocent,” she murmured. Her interest was not entirely captured, but it was piqued. He was sweetly formed, she noted, watching again his back as he crossed the crush of people to rejoin the Redding contingency.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While waiting for the current set to end, Jane spoke to Miss Fairfield, an unfortunately attired young lady who had been moping at a table for most of the night. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps I can convince Mr Redding to do a kindness after our set</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His sort is often chivalrous. Who knows? I might make a match.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As the song changed keys signaling a denouement, Jane stood again, giving her regards. Turning to face the dancers, she saw Mr Redding coming toward her — a little shy still, but moving forward nevertheless with purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe it is our turn now,” he said. Jane could tell, she noted with some amusement, he had practiced the phrase in his head as well as the smooth motion with which he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They found their place among the dancers. Jane realized she felt true anticipation for the dance. It had been so long since she had felt something wholeheartedly. The feeling was like waking up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all his bumbling in society (and truly, wasn’t it just that he was unpracticed to the meticulous London eye?), Mr Redding clearly knew how to dance. He stood a little taller than most men, and instead of being ungainly as some tall men were, he automatically accounted for the difference between his reach and hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You move well, sir,” she complimented. Not so awkward in motion as he was in speech. Another check mark in his favor. She had not completely thought it through — Jane would need quite a bit more evidence of his suitability —</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what potential! If he should move his body so sweetly in bed play...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jane caught herself just before she bit her lip. He had thanked her. She caught the tail end of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you dance often in Cornwall?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am afraid not,” he said with a light laugh. “My younger sister is terribly fond of dancing and wants practice at all hours. Living with my family means I am the gentleman most reliably on hand to partner her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What an excellent brother you are,” Jane said lowly. “I have no siblings myself, else I should certainly have commandeered their afternoons as such myself when I was a tenderer age.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not one sibling?” Mr Redding asked in a tone of surprise. “I find that hard to imagine. Was it terribly quiet, your childhood home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would have been were I less fond of shouting as a child,” she said blandly. He laughed again. “Oh, I assure you: I was a very naughty child, and I am reaping what I then sowed in my own son.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over Mr Redding’s shoulder, Jane spotted Mr Whistler subtly exchanging bets over dancing partners with another watcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you ever make mud pies?” Mr Redding asked. “My sister and I were terribly fond of that. Sand pies from the beach did not stain our elder brothers’ trousers in the same way.” Jane enjoyed the spark of mischief the memory had set in his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heavens, no,” she said with a laugh. “I ran wild out of doors, though, to be sure. Kept my governesses very busy, I did, whenever we went on park outings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really was a graceful man, she marveled. Other ladies nearby had cast longing looks when their partners proved more inept. That reminded her: Miss Fairfield (and her unfortunately feathered headpiece) had not danced all night. It was time to do a good turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though not </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> good a turn. She could have directed him to Miss Wright, who was exquisite in lavender, or the already lauded Miss Featherstonehaugh, who was likely occupied for the rest of the night anyway. Miss Fairfield was a sensible choice, like eating one’s greens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should ask Miss Fairfield to dance next,” Jane said, pointing her out with a nod of her head to Mr Redding. “She is a sweet young lady and I am sure she would love the opportunity."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? Certainly, I will oblige. Would you introduce us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gladly,” Jane said. “There is no such thing as too many friends, do not you agree?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Marry her and find my bed in the night</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she thought greedily. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get her with child, you’re both young and of similar social stature, and let me take my pleasure of you. That will work. Everyone gets what they want. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>What a plan it would be! How very symmetrical. And it would leave her without a bothersome, opinionated gentleman to worry about underfoot in her home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lady Jane Winewood intended to make a conquest this Season. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. in which there are doubts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jane wants a lover. Jane has found a himbo who has no idea how to talk to women. Jane is in trouble.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 20 April 1814 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Almack's weekly was what this discerning guest’s undiscerning reader (most of you, dear ton) would not have called particularly exciting. You may have witnessed a gentleman escorted out quite firmly for attempting to misplace his brandy into the lemonade (what a horrid taste! This guest must thank the hostesses for intervening). Miss F was ready to drop by the night was over — she had a full dance card and gentlemen hounding her between reels as well. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But for the discerning among you? Oh, you few had quite an entertaining evening. Here’s just a nibble of the many bright spots of the evening: </em>
</p><ul>
<li><em>Mrs A kept watch over the ladies. Never grew out of her boarding school proclivities, did she? </em></li>
</ul><ul>
<li><em>Lord M snuck out to speak quite harshly to his coachman for taking liberties with his daughter (his daughter stood at the window and cried, poor dear).</em></li>
</ul><ul>
<li><em>And Lady W exchanged bon mots over biscuits. Or perhaps cress sandwiches. This author is not omniscient, after all, despite what Mr Q insisted last Tuesday at White’s. You may want to change that bet now, wouldn’t you think?</em></li>
</ul><p> </p><p>The Serpentine was not Jane’s preferred place to partake of the ton’s favorite gossip rag (her favorite place was in bed with a breakfast tray). But Hyde Park was where she found herself the day after Almack’s. Her son, James, was occupied with vexing his long-suffering nanny and not learning a single thing the tutor, who had insisted rather incorrectly the lake in Hyde Park would be an appropriate place to take in a nature lesson, was attempting to relay to his stubborn mind.</p><p>Jane loved her child. Truly. All that rot about motherhood that she had been spoonfed since childhood had been true for her from the moment she’d first beheld him, a squalling little red creature presented to her shortly after his birth. He was trouble, and had been every day since. She had loved watching him grow, and her responsibility toward him moved her decisions in every way... before returning to town.</p><p>His adjustment to London had been rocky. She had not liked the country, but she knew little James did — or rather, he knew little else beyond the Winewood lands. He had been more out of doors than in since he’d mastered walking, and had tracked such an abundance of mud across her Turkey carpets that she had had them removed entirely from the rooms where he was most likely to bound in from the gardens.</p><p>They had a special time every day just before his supper where he visited his mamma and he spoke of what pressing matters needed to be presented to her. Since arriving, it had been endless questions of when they would return to the manor, of where he could find frogs in London, of why they had gone somewhere so dreadful.</p><p>He would adjust. He would.</p><p>Joining the outing to The Serpentine had also presented an opportunity to spy what couples were forming and who was beaux to whom. This, of course, was a topic of perennial interest as well as good social currency.</p><p>Newlyweds Mr and Mrs Swanne, a love match by all accounts according to Mr Whistler, were in a freshly-painted phaeton. Two misses she did not know were walking close by, identifiable by their virginal white and two chaperones walking behind looking bored. Just near the river there was a larger group of mixed ages along with the paraphernalia of a picnic. Thick blankets to protect from grass and mud, several baskets, and multiple carriages loitering nearby confirmed that suspicion.</p><p>She looked closer. It was the Reddings, what seemed to be all of them, and the young gentleman she had flirted with last night among them. She snapped up her gossip sheet over her face to disguise the look of interest she’d been shamelessly casting their way.</p><p>To have this and her son in one setting was nearly unthinkable. Her son was one thing, the Redding family another, and then Mr Redding. They belonged in separate circles entirely: one family, one society, and one she’d like to see blindfolded and chained to her bedpost. Jane had carefully divided those sorts of thoughts away, excised them to the bedroom where she could plot and plan for how to satisfy what had so far been unsatisfiable. The combination was distressing, to say the least.  </p><p>She wondered how Mr Redding had liked Miss Fairfield. A vicious part of her hoped he had liked her, Jane, better. That part hoped Miss Fairfield had given lackluster conversation and perhaps trod on Mr Redding’s graceful feet. Maybe more than once. Still, Miss Fairfield was eminently marriable, even if she had horrendous taste in fashion.</p><p>It was not right to choose a lover who was not a rake, who did not half seduce her first. And this gentleman who — she lowered her gossip sheet just below eye level — was carrying one of the young Reddings on his shoulders was clearly as unspoiled as freshly fallen snow.</p><p>She should set her sights elsewhere. Lord knew there were plenty of young gentlemen panting and heaving to sow their wild oats with a young widow. She should leave him to the tender mercies of the Miss Fairfields. She should do so gladly.</p><p>But the thought of teaching this young gentleman the art of love was heady. He looked an innocent, he acted an innocent... and she wished for nothing more than for him to give that to her. To let her turn it in her hands, study it carefully, and take it from him. To beckon him to her and have him hurry to her side, eager to hand his innocence over. Begging her to take him. </p><p>Maybe he would let her ride him like a horse, and she could swat at his sides as though he needed to go faster. What noises he might make. What shock he would have. What pleasure.</p><p>It felt unseasonably warm for April. She knew it was not due to her manner of dress. </p><p>She shook her head and looked over to James. The tutor was currently waving his arms from the slate and chalks he had brought at James, who was close to the edge of the Serpentine playing with some other children. </p><p>“My dear man,” Jane called to the tutor, “surely you know you will have to snatch him up and drag him back? My James is a wild one.” She would have felt sympathy, perhaps, if it were something she felt routinely and not as a matter of course. The poor, the infirm, sick babies: those aroused her sympathies. Lazy tutors who could not corral a student into learning: simply not. </p><p>Jane rose from her bench, folding the gossip sheet and tucking it into her reticule. <em> Tsk</em>ing the tutor as she walked past, she marched up to James. He had his back to her, occupied wholly in telling a tall tale of one of the late Lord W’s favored horses to two children. It was surprisingly coherent for a six year old’s retelling. </p><p>It was with a sinking stomach she realized his audience had brown hair and well-made clothes. The Redding blood was strong. Even these children, who couldn’t be much older than James, bore the jawline and nose of the gentleman she had danced with last night. She was in direct line of sight from the Redding picnic. It was unavoidable.</p><p><em> I long for perspective</em>, Jane thought miserably. She wished longingly for time to find her senses and talk herself out of defiling an innocent when there were so many perfectly indecent rakes. </p><p>But she did not have time. Mr Redding was rapidly approaching. She bent at the waist and put her hand on James’ little shoulder.</p><p>“James, darling,” Jane said as evenly as she could. “I believe your tutor is requesting your assistance in solving a great leaf-related problem. He simply can’t manage without you. As soon as you finish telling your lovely story, why don’t you go help him?” </p><p>James considered this. “Mamma,” he said gravely, “we meant to make mud pies.” </p><p>The two Reddings nodded, eyes round. “We just finished meat pies,” one added helpfully. </p><p>“You may make the mud pies after you help your tutor,” Jane said firmly. </p><p>James looked mutinous. Jane closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded herself she had been just as stubborn at his age. </p><p>When she opened her eyes again, Mr Redding was bowing in her direction. “Lady Winewood,” he said with a smile. “London is smaller than I imagined, it seems.”</p><p>“The ton are like marbles in a jar,” Jane said, trying not to remember how she had wished to mount him not ten minutes earlier. “You can’t move for knocking into someone you know in London.” </p><p>“Uncle Rob,” the little boy of the pair spoke, “have you ever trained horses?”</p><p><em> Do not</em>, Jane thought with gritted teeth, <em> think about riding </em> anything <em> right now</em>. And yet still her eyes slipped to Mr Reddings’ thighs, grazing what surely lay between them. His thighs were sturdy. Made to hold her weight. </p><p>She looked up as soon as she realized she was woolgathering, relieved to see Mr Redding was answering his nephew’s question. </p><p>“Mr Redding,” she said, “I apologize for my son intruding on your family’s time. We need to help your tutor now, don’t we, James?” </p><p>“<em> No</em>,” James said, but her hand went to his shoulder and squeezed lightly. He sighed and glumly said, “Yes.” </p><p>They were walking away, James stomping his boots more than was necessary, when: “Lady Winewood?”</p><p>Jane turned back around. </p><p>“May I call upon you this week?” Mr Redding and his sturdy thighs and strapping shoulders and thoroughly pullable hair stood with his hands behind his back. He looked eager. A puppy in need of training. A horse who needed the whip. </p><p>“Certainly,” she said automatically. She slapped on a polite smile, turning to march James back over to his tutor, and hoped fervently he had no matrimonial inclinations in her direction. </p><p>With a sinking feeling, she was sure those were the only sort he could fathom. Yet. </p><p>Men could be trained like any horse or dog, she reminded herself. Even ones such as Mr Redding were stupid and able to be trained, if one put in the effort. If he could make himself useful and abide by her rules, why, things might still look up. She may be able to indulge that fantasy of riding him, perhaps putting a bit in his mouth… </p><p>At least she had time to prepare.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 22 April 1814 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My, but the ton has been busy these past few days! Between Lord S and Miss B running to Gretna Green for a surprise marriage and two gentlemen of consequence having had a nearly-deadly duel (over cards, or over a spurned sister, or perhaps over a combination of the two), all are abuzz. We flit from door to door, passing cards along through butlers, waiting over shortbread and tea with bated breath for that one last piece of perfect gossip to add to our collection. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yes, we. Never forget I am one of you, my dear ton. And we are all curators of our own fine museums of miscellany and frippery. What we do matters so little and yet -- I do so love to learn of your misbehaviors. Never change.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Winewood House stood in a set of similar houses in a respectable square not far from fashionable Mayfair. The location plus Jane’s social proclivities ensured a steady stream of morning and afternoon callers whenever she was in. She wished she had had more opportunities to use the house for that purpose. It was a shame Lord W had insisted on keeping her stuffed away in the country. </p><p>Most couples who did not make love matches lived comfortably apart, or in separate wings. Lord W’s love of the country and near-obsession with the horse breeding and vineyards the Winewoods had cultivated for centuries had meant he had seen no need for any part of his family to go to London (or anywhere outside the family lands) for anything short of death or marriage. </p><p>Well, one had come to pass. And now Jane was free. </p><p>The red drawing room, fittingly done in shades of wine-dark red, pale cream, and dark cherry wood, had seen a few familiar faces already. Mary had come first thing, face white as snow, to share the news of a duel involving her younger brother and youngest sister. </p><p>Jane called for a strong pot of tea from Thorpe, her butler. Sitting back down beside Mary, she reached over the place a hand on top of Mary’s. “Tea will help,” she said firmly. “Now, tell me what’s going on. A duel?”</p><p>“My brother, my younger brother,” Mary said, “came upon Mr Shellsworth at White’s last night. That gentleman was sharing how he had taken advantage of my poor sister Miss Greene at a ball last week, in the host’s library. He was giving sordid details like it was a two-bit street show over cards. My brother demanded satisfaction immediately.” Mary sniffled, touching the mangled handkerchief she’d been wringing in her hands to her eyes.  </p><p>“Oh dear,” said Jane. “They did not come to blows in White’s, then. Were shots exchanged?”</p><p>Mary nodded. “Yes,” she wailed. “They met in Hyde Park, of course. My brother shot wide -- he has a quick temper but a terrible shot, you know -- but Mr Shellsworth struck my brother’s knee. It is quite shattered. The surgeon is not sure he shall ever walk upon that leg again.”</p><p>“Mary,” said Jane. “I am so sorry. Has your sister…?”</p><p>“Oh, yes, of course, she knows,” said Mary, sniffling again, “and she is quite furious about the whole affair. Mr Shellsworth, fortunately, did seem properly horrified after the fact. My father has decided that rather than press charges, he shall press Mr Shellsworth into matrimony immediately. They’re arranging the special license as we speak.”  </p><p>“At least Miss Greene shall be spared ruination,” Jane murmured. She did hope Mr Shellsworth would prove a better husband than he did an unmarried cad, though that remained to be seen. Likely neither would be happy. That was what extramarital activities were for, though — goodness knew half the ton was sleeping with each other. </p><p>“That’s what we pray for,” Mary said with more piety than Jane thought was strictly necessary. </p><p>“Shall I expect my invitation in the post, or will it be hush-hush?” </p><p>Mary twisted her mouth. “I really am not sure yet,” she said, “but I imagine it will be a very small affair. You won’t be offended…?” </p><p>“Of course not! Surely the shattered knee and your sister’s reputation must take priority.” </p><p>“Thank you for listening, Jane,” said Mary. “I tried to talk to Mr Abernathy earlier and I may as well have been crying at a tree. Truly, the man is dry as dirt!”</p><p>“I understand completely,” Jane said warmly. “You heard so much about the Winewood estate’s troubles simply because Lord W was too busy hunting to hear otherwise!” </p><p>Mary laughed a little — Jane’s intended reaction.</p><p>After sitting a few more minutes peaceably chatting, Thorpe carried a card in on a tray. Jane stood to check it. Mr Redding. He had come earlier than most social calls. Jane smoothed the wrinkle between her brows with a long breath.</p><p>“Mary, I’m afraid another caller has arrived. Will you be alright with a little more company? I can turn him away if you need more time.” </p><p>Mary’s eyebrows sketched upwards. “By no means, Jane! Do not allow me to keep you from society more than you have been. You are still catching up to speed! Who is it?”</p><p>“Mr Redding,” Jane said, not making eye contact. “Of the Cornwall Reddings.”</p><p>“Which Mr Redding? I seem to recall there are several.” </p><p>“The youngest,” Jane said, studiously looking at the last few drops of tea in her cup.</p><p>Mary’s eyes went round as saucers. “Him, then?”</p><p>“It’s not a sure thing. Don’t give me that look, Mary, I’m unsure enough as it is.” </p><p>“None of the Reddings have ever been rakes, Jane,” Mary said warningly. “They’re alarmingly wholesome and close-knit as a bunch. I am sure this young one is not experienced, either.” </p><p>“I did not know what I was looking for here in London, and I am not sure he is it,” said Jane, “but his obvious lack of experience is not a disqualifying element. In fact, I rather like it. Also, Mary! He is in the vestibule! Surely this conversation could <em> wait </em>?” </p><p>“Very well,” said Mary, “but you will have to introduce me. I demand it.” She settled back into the chaise with a satisfied air. Jane was a little glad to have something juicy to distract Mary from her family’s woes. It would be preferable if it wasn’t at her own expense, though. </p><p>Jane sighed and turned back to her butler. “I will receive him,” she said, choosing not to acknowledge the conversation he had overheard. </p><p>Her butler, the definition of discretion, nodded his head once and returned to the vestibule. Jane and Mary listened to the two approaching sets of footsteps in silence. </p><p><em> Please</em>, Jane thought, <em> please let Mary not be too forward with her questions</em>. They had not had time to discuss the exact nature of the attachment -- if it could even be defined as an attachment. It was less an attachment and more an arrangement that had yet to be made. Yes. Jane liked that better. </p><p>Thorpe showed the man in and left to fetch a maid to refresh their tea. Mr Redding hovered in the doorway a moment, his hands clutching his hat a shade too tightly. His nerves soothed Jane’s own (not that she <em> had </em>nerves, she reminded herself, she simply did not wish Mary to spoil a golden opportunity). </p><p>“Mr Redding,” Jane said, in a tone of pleasant surprise. “How lovely to see you. Welcome to my home. Please, be seated, some fresh tea should be on its way shortly.” </p><p>As Mr Redding sat down in one of the chintz chairs opposite the chaise Mary and Jane were on, Mary cleared her throat.</p><p>“How silly of me to forget my manners,” Jane said in a tone that suggested she had not forgotten anything. “This is my dearest friend, Mrs Mary Abernathy. Mrs Abernathy, this is Mr Redding.” </p><p>“I am so pleased to meet you, Mr Redding,” cried Mary. “I have heard so much in passing on how close your family is. How utterly charming of you all to be devoted to each other so!” </p><p>Jane reminded herself that Mary’s family had suffered a shocking tragedy just this day. She urged herself to practice patience, to allow Mary to have her fun distraction. Still her slipper began a slow tap on the carpet, hidden beneath her morning dress.  </p><p>Mr Redding smiled at the mention of his family and seemingly did not question Mary’s exuberance. “Yes, I scarcely know what I would do if I did not have at least one sibling or cousin within easy reach. Even when I was at Cambridge, I had another second cousin studying at the same time. I did not know until I came to London that we had a reputation for being close.” </p><p>“It is an excellent reputation to have,” Mary assured him, “so unlike some of the more scandalous assertions one overhears! Tell me, Mr Redding, have you come for the Season to find a wife?”</p><p>Some merciful quirk of the world made it that moment that Thorpe directed a maid in with a tray full of biscuits and hot tea. Jane, face burning, oversaw the transfer of the tray to the table and poured a cup for herself and Mr Redding. </p><p>Mr Redding was having trouble finding his words. A sip of the tea seemed to fortify him somewhat. “It is not my only reason, but if it happens, I will submit to the bonds of marriage happily.”</p><p>“A sensible answer,” Mary said approvingly. “You never know when merry Cupid will strike!”</p><p>“The love match between yourself and Mr Abernathy being fated for artists to depict for generations to come, I’m sure,” Jane murmured. </p><p>Mr Redding opened his mouth and then shut it again. </p><p>Mary snorted. “Fair enough, at that. We can’t all choose based on our hearts.” She sobered then -- Jane wondered if she thought of her sister. </p><p>“I should get back to my mother and father’s house,” Mary said abruptly, and Jane knew her guess had been correct. “Thank you for the hospitality and the listening ear as always, Jane.”</p><p>“Of course, Mary,” said Jane. </p><p>Once Mary had left, silence descended over the room. Jane poured herself another cup of tea. </p><p>Mr Redding looked at her askance, looking away once she met his in return. </p><p>“Were those your niece and nephew? By the Serpentine, I mean. James did enjoy meeting them.” </p><p>“Yes,” he said, obviously relieved to have a familiar topic at hand. “They’re my oldest brother’s children. Horribly spoiled, of course. I believe little Miranda received her twentieth doll recently. Fifteen of them have been from my grandmother. She adores having great-grandchildren.” </p><p>“A lucky girl,” said Jane. “I am quite sure James only has three sets of tin soldiers. Clearly I have neglected him.” </p><p>Mr Redding laughed at that. Then, setting his jaw, he asked, “Lady Winewood, are you attending the Dashwood ball tonight?” </p><p>“Just out of London proper? Yes, it’s one of the annual fetes I attended back when I was unmarried. Why do you ask?” </p><p>“I wondered if you would do me the honor of the first dance tonight.” He took a long sip from his teacup immediately after finishing the request. </p><p>Jane found his shyness charming, quite against her better nature. “I would, sir, gladly. I look forward to it.” </p><p>Damn it. The tension between them was thick enough to cut. She felt like a girl in the schoolroom again, dissecting the intricacies of romance. She thrilled at just the thought of a dance.</p><p>This was not going according to plan. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It occurred to me that a little primer on some regency stuff I've been including would be welcome!</p><p>The Season: the social season when a large portion of high society descended on London. Generally spring to summer. (Apparently still kind of a thing! Wild.) </p><p>the ton: aka "le bon ton." A term used to refer to British high society during the regency period and a little after. </p><p>Almack's: Almack's was a social establishment for British high society. I found out while researching this fic this actually refers to several establishments which went on to form OTHER social clubs! Almack's had a series of patronesses who were the creme de la creme of society -- in order to receive an invitation to Almack's, you had to basically be on their good side and/or be unquestionably part of high society. In its heyday, it was The Place to Be. </p><p>White's: The oldest gentleman's club in London. Where fancy lads went to gamble and smoke. </p><p>The Serpentine: a recreational lake in Hyde Park, which is later mentioned as the location of Mary's brother's duel! </p><p>Let me know if you'd like clarification on anything else, I'm certainly missing something else lol.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. of chocolate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Dashwood ball. An invitation to supper. A decision. A cast die.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 22 April 1814 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Enough petty gossip. There’s scads of that to be found. This guest is looking forward: specifically, out toward the heath. The Dashwood fete always provides amusement. Last year’s ball led to the meetings of three couples who would shortly thereafter become engaged! Let us hope for such tidings this year (or, if not, for the outcome of the Dashwood ball of 1812, where a certain drunken gentleman put the punch bowl over his head and declared himself king).  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The Dashwood estate was out of town, in Hampstead near the heath. If Jane leaned her head out the window, she knew she would see a steady stream of ornate carriages delivering high society out to one of the biggest balls of the season. </p><p>Careful to avoid disturbing her hair, Jane leaned her head against the back wall of the carriage and took a deep breath. She was nearly at the Dashwoods’. Night had fallen fully ages ago, but she swore the stars she could see (so many more than in London proper!) were twinkling with mirth, laughing at her. </p><p>The dance was ahead.</p><p>This one felt different, different even than the one she had shared with Mr Redding a few days back.</p><p>When Lord Winewood courted her years earlier, he had danced the requisite two dances with her at balls. Nothing more, nothing less: it was a policy he had carried through to their marriage. Jane’s mother had taught her to expect that from men, that excess affection was something she could expect only from her pets, her children, and her lovers — in that order. </p><p>Marriage was for the preservation of ideals. Love and whatever pesky feeling flittered and zipped in Jane’s belly were not a part of it.</p><p>Mr Redding was not a man she could be mistress to: not of his house, and not strictly of his body. She was torn. </p><p>Handing off her invitation at the door, walking in with her head held high, savoring the click of her shoes on the Dashwoods’ marble floors, Jane reminded herself. <em> I will never belong to another man again. </em> </p><p>That thought propelled her forward.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>As expected, the ballroom was packed wall to wall. Part of the reason the Dashwood ball was so well-attended was the chance to see their famed pleasure gardens that faced the heath. The ballroom’s back wall faced out to the gardens with a huge terrace overlooking the lush plants and the night sky.</p><p>It would have been terribly romantic if not for the hundreds of people attending. </p><p>Jane had arrived earlier than she usually did — generally, she arrived as the orchestra struck up the second or third dance. Still, when in doubt, best to start with familiar ground. She craned her head from side to side, and spying her quarry, she struck.</p><p>The largest part of being part of the ton was knowing when to speak and when to hold one’s tongue. Jane found one of the Misses Dashwoods and congratulated her on the turnout. She did not point out that the room was packed to bursting and they needed to be ushering people out to the terrace immediately lest someone see an opportunity to have a fainting spell and be heroically carried off by whatever dashing rake was nearest. </p><p>After that, Jane spoke to Miss Fletcher briefly, to Sir Morton even more briefly (he had known her own dear-departed father well and she felt the need to renew the acquaintance, even if he was a bit of a bore), and congratulated Mrs Swanne on her marriage. </p><p>The Dashwoods spared no expense for music; there was a whole orchestra setting up in the musicians’ loft. Jane could hear them tuning their instruments. They would begin soon.</p><p>Such a crowd. It was interesting she had not come across anyone she considered a friend yet.</p><p>A single violin cried out once, twice, signaling the start of dancing soon. Couples gathered, ladies jumped out of seats giddily when asked, and Jane stood alone, surprised she had gravitated toward the dancers without realizing.</p><p>“Lady Winewood?” </p><p>She had been on tenterhooks waiting for his voice and not known it. But her heart beat so rapidly she was sure he, everyone, could hear it.</p><p>Jane closed her eyes, shushed the unhelpfully silly girl inside once again. She turned.</p><p>“Mr Redding,” she said softly, and allowed him a moment. The blue of her dress, the subtle sheen of her gloves, the pearls at ear and throat: all had been calculated for this moment. She could not disguise the lines under her eyes, but she could still render a man speechless.</p><p>Pride curled in Jane like a cat at the look on his face. His coat was dark, like most of the gentlemen, and his hair brushed over the collar sweetly. His eyes skittered over her like dragonflies over a pond. </p><p>“Lady Winewood,” Mr Redding repeated. </p><p>“Hello,” Jane said. “What fortuitous timing you have.”</p><p>“It is our cue, is it not?” Mr Redding bowed and gave her his arm. She thought he seemed as glad as she for the manners, which presented a convenient way to sidestep true conversation for the moment. Jane’s tongue felt heavy and unused to honeyed phrases she had pulled out easily earlier. A strange day, that was it. Nothing more. </p><p>The first dance, it became clear, was a waltz. Of course. Of course. <em> Mr Redding is so young</em>, Jane thought, <em> I may well need to ask his mother for permission to waltz with him.  </em></p><p>They took their places among the other dancers. His arm reached, with only a trace of hesitancy (<em>good man</em>, Jane thought approvingly) for her waist. Her hand touched his shoulder. Their hands met, clasped. </p><p>And then it was simple. </p><p>The waltz was a uniquely romantic dance. Jane laughed a little. </p><p>“Do you know,” she asked, “how long it has been since I last waltzed?” </p><p>One, <em> two</em>, three, one, <em> two</em>, three. </p><p>“Longer than you would like, I would guess,” Mr Redding said. </p><p>“You are absolutely right, sir,” said Jane with a smile. “It has been years -- perhaps before my marriage! It may have been in this ballroom, in fact. Lord Winewood and I did not become engaged here though, to answer the question you were about to ask.” </p><p>“Does this ball have a reputation for preceding nuptials?” </p><p>“Mm,” said Jane. “Something always happens here. People take leave of their propriety on the heath. Often people are caught in the pleasure gardens. The last year I attended, two separate parties were found. Parties, mind you, not couples. Sorting out who would marry who took some work, I understand. I was already engaged at that point,” she primly concluded. </p><p>Mr Redding’s blush amused her beyond measure. </p><p>“And I thought stealing the college boats and taking a drunken boat ride was scandalous,” he said.</p><p>“You rascal,” Jane said lowly. The blush, which had not left his face, deepened. She decided to spare him a response. </p><p>“For once,” Jane noted, “the table is divine here. Or, at least, I expect it must be. The Dashwoods never skimp on hospitality. Have you had time to peruse the selection?”</p><p>“I did,” Mr Redding said. “Is it normal for refreshments to be so… dire at balls?”</p><p>“Unfortunately, yes. For all the hosts of the Ton take pride in hosting balls and having lovely venues, very few seem to put the same value in their table. Perhaps discouraging eating to keep dancers out of seats?” </p><p>“That would make sense if I could not clearly see the number of people seated,” said Mr Redding. “Would you like to take a turn of the room to see the table?”</p><p>“I believe so, yes,” said Jane, “but first, I intend to enjoy this waltz very much.” </p><p>The smile Mr Redding afforded her at that statement left crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It would lead to wrinkles, Jane thought, but she found she could not disapprove. </p><p>“I believe I will enjoy the waltz as well, Lady Winewood,” he said. </p><p>“I assume it has not been quite so long since your last waltz,” Jane said, half-questioning.</p><p>Mr Redding nodded. “You are correct. I danced one with a young lady at a ball not long after we arrived in London a fortnight ago, and before that a good few at Cambridge balls. Not quite on this scale, as you might imagine.”</p><p>“Do you enjoy dancing, then? So many men must be dragged onto the floor.”</p><p>“I find there is little better than dancing to get to know someone,” he said, voice a little lower. Her fingers tightened in his. </p><p>“I would agree,” she said, “especially with dances like this. Some dances you scarcely lay eyes upon your partner for moving amidst the other dancers. Surely it’s better to be close. For talking purposes, of course.”</p><p>She felt more than heard the rumble of his laugh. “Yes, for talking.” </p><p>As the waltz ended, Jane noticed several things: the stringent perfume wafting off a nearby dancer, the feathers coming out of the hairpiece of a distressed young lady, the wobble of a gentleman already well in his cups. And she realized further she had not noticed anything else but Mr Redding while dancing with him. </p><p>It frightened her. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Clarity returned on their turn about the ballroom, which set Jane at ease. It was at the refreshments table that Mr Redding knocked her back again. </p><p>“I must tell you,” Mr Redding said, selecting an eclair from the pile of desserts, “my family has accepted an invitation to attend a short house party just out of town for a few days. My younger sister has grown quite close with the hosting family and quite a few of us will be attending.” </p><p>Jane paused. Not seeing him for a few days, then, perhaps a week or two if the family enjoyed their stay. She shoved aside the distress that thought produced in her. Useless. </p><p>“Shall you miss bumping into me, then?” Jane asked playfully. “Half the time, it seems we run into each other on accident. I shall not know what to think if I have so much as a full day unarrested by a surprise appearance.” </p><p>“Consider it a warning,” he answered, “that you shall have peace on your next outing to the Serpentine.” </p><p>Jane laughed, but then -- she thought she might allow herself -- </p><p>She touched his arm lightly. He startled. Even through all the layers separating their skin, she felt the warmth of him acutely. </p><p>“Send a card around when you return to town,” she said softly. “I should like to invite you to supper. And you have a bit of cream on your chin.” </p><p>He reached up to his face, swiped the cream, and unthinkingly brought the tip of his finger to his mouth. </p><p>Jane burned at the sight. She took a long sip of lemonade to cool herself ineffectually. </p><p>“Supper would be nice,” he said finally. “I should enjoy a chance to see more of your home.” <em> To see more of you, he might have said</em>, she thought, half-fevered. </p><p>“It’s set,” Jane said firmly. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Absence makes the heart grow fonder.</p><p>Absence makes the heart grow weary of one’s own preoccupation, Jane corrected. She should write that down, if she felt like picking up a pen to write anything of use. She had scarcely picked up pen and ink but to write to Mr Redding and then crumple the page up and burn it. The hearth in her morning room had scarcely been so well fed since her arrival in London. </p><p>Mary had come round most mornings, often with George in tow to play with Henry, or else Jane had gone round to the Abernathys’ snug townhome for tea. </p><p>She had gone to balls. Looked at men. Collected gossip. Watched. </p><p>The color had gone out of the ton. </p><p>It was ludicrous to miss a man she scarcely knew.</p><p>More ludicrous yet, to dream of him as she had. And yet Jane’s dreams did not care. In them, laid out like a portrait, Mr Redding pleaded with her: for satisfaction, for pain, for anything so long as she was pleased with him. She kicked him down with a boot. Raised him up with a caress. Laid back or towered over or lavished praise. The dreams set her so ill at ease she could scarcely think of them in full sentences so much as mere fragments: the reflections of what she wished to do to the man.</p><p>It would not do. </p><p>She set a fresh sheet of paper on her writing desk, and planned out a letter. Jane would give him that supper, ply him with her larder. After that, she was helpless to deny it: Lady Winewood would strike.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 1 May 1814 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> May Day: a day for the blushing youth if ever there was one. And, of course, for society matrons who pretend at youth they no longer possess. Dear ton, never change. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This guest hopes most fervently to see the balls and gardens filled with young people plying their troths. That is what spring was made for, is it not? (Or perhaps for getting caught in greenhouses committing unmentionable improprieties. I can never remember. Perhaps one should ask Mr L and Miss B. Happy wishes to the newly engaged!) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Mr Redding had arrived for supper at five to ten, precisely when he was expected. Thorpe met him at the door and presented him into the dining room, where Jane waited in candlelight, pretending she was not posing. She wore cream-colored silk, a strip of lace with a cameo at her throat, and her hair soft around her face. One curl dripped down her throat, resting at her collarbone.  </p><p>He goggled, as she had expected. And so the night started according to plan. </p><p>For supper, soup and a light plate of poultry and greens. For dessert, four truffles arranged in a diamond on a gold-rimmed plate.</p><p>“I never skimp on dessert,” Jane said with a little laugh. “These truffles are divine, and the chocolatier surely knows my kitchen staff well for how often I send them to fetch treats.</p><p>“Go on, then. Try one.” Her voice was deceptively mild; there was a vein of steel in the entreatment. Was it an order? He raised a truffle to his mouth, about to bite.</p><p>“Take your gloves off, please, sir.”</p><p>She watched the sweet wrinkle of his brow with delight. “It is just us two here. Just us,” she said, raising her arms as though inviting him to inspect the potted plants for an interloper. “No one will know I requested you take leave of your manners.”</p><p>He bit his lip. She raised her chin.</p><p>His right hand went to the tips of his left. One, two, three, four, five quick tugs and then one slightly longer and the glove was off. The other glove joined its mate in short order. His hands were broad, freckled lightly like his nose.</p><p>He looked up to her again, head still slightly lowered, like a puppy who’d been caught chewing a slipper.</p><p>“Now take the truffle,” she said, taking her own gloves off, “and take a bite. Just half the truffle, mind, have a care not to eat the whole thing. I would like you to savor it.”</p><p>He hesitated. Jane could see the question forming in his mind, saw his mouth move.</p><p>But then he brought the truffle to his mouth and bit. His eyes closed briefly.</p><p>“I know,” Jane said. “Magic, aren’t they? Chocolate is truly the most sinful ingredient, I believe. It’s best to savor it. Go ahead and eat the other half now.”</p><p>Mr Redding ate the other half quickly. “What chocolatier made these?”</p><p>“It’s just up the street a ways,” Jane replied. “I take it you like them?”</p><p>“They’re wonderful,” he said. “Richer than gold.”</p><p>“And I hope you didn’t mind my telling you how to eat them. I suppose that’s typical of me. I think I know best a little too much,” Jane said, with her heart a little caught in her throat.</p><p>If he told her to contain herself, that he was a gentleman grown with no need to listen to a woman’s demands on his person... Well, she would acquiesce.</p><p>“It was fine,” he said softly. “I was glad to experience it like that. I would have eaten it in one go and not have tasted it nearly so well otherwise. With all my family, you learn to eat quickly. It’s a habit I have been trying to break for London tables.” He looked a little sheepish, but Jane barely heard him over her relief. He had not rejected it.</p><p>A rare man, this.</p><p>“Go on and eat another or two, then,” she said with a little smile. And she watched.</p><p>He ate the next two in the same manner as how she had instructed him.</p><p>Her mind was made up. To have found such a man in such a way —! And clearly unlearned in pleasing women —! How he could improve with time. She smiled. </p><p>“I have so enjoyed having you here for dinner. You have easy, relaxed manners. It’s quite refreshing,” she said.</p><p>“I am glad you have said so,” he said. He looked down at his hands. “Lady Winewood. Surely — Surely you understand the position this places us in. Surely you know this is not done without a certain intimacy offered only by the bonds of —“</p><p>“Are you proposing, Mr Redding?”</p><p>“I was,” he mumbled. “It’s only right.”</p><p>“I have not rejected your suit, sir,” she said. He looked up at her, and his anxious expression brought forth some sympathy from her.</p><p>“You will forgive me, but I cannot understand why you would do anything other than that,” he said with a small laugh.</p><p>“I am young. I have a little earning per year, but not enough to make a drop in your fortune. I had not intended this yet, and certainly never with someone so grand as you.</p><p>“I can offer you nothing, Lady Winewood,” he insisted. His face was open, transparent. Vulnerable, even. She bit into a truffle, savoring the expression and the taste both.</p><p>She laughed quietly, a burble at the back of her throat. Surely he did not think she needed a provider. Surely not. “You may call me Jane.”</p><p>“I am honored, Jane. You may of course call me Robert.” He looked down to the dessert plate briefly. She could tell he felt nervous, but still he was there. Still he had risen to the occasion, done the right thing, respecting her — and doing as she wished. Something fierce rose in her.</p><p>“You’re a green boy,” Jane said, dabbing delicately at her lips. She placed the napkin on her plate, watching him with those catlike eyes. “You are green as spring grass. I knew it before I spoke one word to you at Almack’s, and yet here you sit. Care to venture why?”</p><p>“I have no idea. I would not be an advantageous match. I am but four and twenty. My only options are the military or the clergy. I am not a soldier, and you are not a vicar’s wife. We are cut from separate cloths, Jane. Why would you show me this?”</p><p>“‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ my dear Robert.”</p><p>He looked up at her then, a smile breaking across his face briefly. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>“What could be easier to understand?” She stood up abruptly, walking around the table to him.</p><p>“I have a proposition for your last truffle,” she said. “I can feed it to you, or you could feed it to me. Either is fine, or neither. It is your choice.”</p><p>His lips parted, and she could see the swallow under his neck-cloth. “Could you feed it to me?”</p><p>“Gladly,” she murmured. Taking the truffle in her hand, with a sense of triumph (for she had never done this before — but oh! she had thought of the moment), she placed half on his tongue. Her fingers grazed his lips purposely.</p><p>“Savor that piece,” she whispered. The last half of the truffle followed. Their eyes met as he swallowed. Her hand had not left his face.</p><p>“You will find you are not finished,” she said in a lightly admonishing tone. “There is some melted chocolate on my fingers.”</p><p>“Ah,” he said, eyes growing wide. “I have a napkin...?”</p><p>“Your mouth will do,” she said. His blush spread to his ears as she slid two fingers into his mouth. He made a noise she could only term a whimper — her legs pressed together. He wrapped his tongue around her fingers tentatively.</p><p>Did he think, she wondered wickedly, of other parts that might be sucked? Her thoughts were an arrow pointing toward the bedchambers.</p><p>His eyes closed as she withdrew her fingers.</p><p>“I shall not marry you,” Jane said, soothing the words with a touch to his shoulder. He — Robert, she reminded herself, Robert now — opened his eyes again with a jerk and opened his mouth to interject, but just as quickly the fingers were back at his mouth.</p><p>“I shall not marry you,” she repeated, “but I should like to take you to my bed.”</p><p>His eyebrows drew together. She withdrew her fingers again. “I am not the kind of man who would do that to a gently-bred woman,” he said.</p><p>“I am no virgin, Robert,” Jane reminded him.</p><p>“It’s the principle,” he insisted. “Are we that far apart in society that you cannot give me a true yes or no?”</p><p>“It is true I could remarry fairly easily,” Jane admittedly. “I could have my pick of barons, perhaps a viscount, any number of landed gentry. But I want the autonomy to raise my son to be the next Lord Winewood without bending to the demands of someone who does not share those lands and that title and, yet more, I wish to be my own woman.”</p><p>“You’ve read Wollstonecraft, I see,” Robert said dryly. “I would not interfere with your son’s education or quibble overmuch in his raising. I would think,” he said, “you would know I would do my utmost to do right by him. You have seen my family. I was raised to value family over all else.”</p><p>“You truly are a good man,” Jane said softly. “May I kiss you?”</p><p>“Will you accept my proposal of marriage?”</p><p>“I will need time,” Jane warned. “But I will consider it. I can promise you that.”</p><p>She would consider it, yes. She would consider it and hope he would choose to be satisfied with her companionship in the bedroom. Perhaps even after he married... Then again, she thought doubtfully, he was a man who valued the sanctity of marriage. He would not be the sort to abandon vows.</p><p>She would take what she could get while she could, Jane decided. Of course she should select a truly virtuous man to sin with. Of course he wasn’t a rake.</p><p>Robert stood, eyes warm. “I feel I should ask you for a kiss,” he said, arms moving hesitantly to her waist. She welcomed them there and stepped closer. “Is it not strange you asked me?”</p><p>“Pleasure is only as strange as you make it,” she murmured, and captured his lips with hers.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It Begins. :-)</p><p>Again, let me know if something confuses you. I'm relying mostly on the power of google and my own consumption of regency romance novels for accuracy. </p><p>Also yes, Hampstead Heath was not in London proper yet!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. of fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>writer's block is a beast. but hey! here we are!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> A Discerning Guest’s Society Papers </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> 1 May 1814 </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Take care tonight, readers. There is a Fever come upon us all in spring. Keep your wits, else you find your name inscribed on this humble sheet soon. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The kiss lit Jane from within, stoking the pool of desire that had settled firmly in her belly. She wrapped her arms around Robert — Robert! it was a delight to use his given name — like a vise, pulling him down to her. It had been so long since she had been kissed. So, so long. Lord Winewood had never bothered, and Jane had not cared to ask. </p>
<p>She bit Robert’s lip in triumph. He made a little noise of surprise, which turned into a moan when she thrust her tongue into his mouth. That little battle of mouths had always amused Jane: how could something so absolutely unsensual as tongues touching spark fire inside? And yet their little battle did. His mouth was warm, breath hot as they broke away. </p>
<p>She had been standing on her tiptoes, pulling and grasping, and he lowered himself to her level on noticing that. Robert’s hands stroked up and down her back, slowly exploring the plane of her body. He looked as though he were concentrating intently on the feel. </p>
<p>He moved to her jaw, planting tiny searching kisses along the line to her ear.</p>
<p>“May I take some liberties, Robert?” Her head tilted up, her eyes closed, but she wished... she wished ever so to touch more of him.</p>
<p>“Am I not already doing that?” He asked, a warm chuckle in the back of his throat.</p>
<p>She hissed a little and raked her hands over his waistcoat until he took it off. “I wish to take,” she said, “and take, and take, until I have had my fill of you. I am not quite sure when that will be, but I know it will not be when you have all these abominable clothes on.” </p>
<p>Robert’s hands stilled as he shucked the waistcoat fully. His eyes were huge, shocked. “I knew you were a singular woman, Jane,” he said, “but it is still so strange to hear such demands. Is intimacy always so pressing?” </p>
<p>“No,” Jane admitted. “But I find myself greedy for you in a way that is difficult to process.”</p>
<p>“Greed,” Robert said. His hands went back to her sides, fingers tracing the faint bumps of boning in her stays. “That may not be as difficult to understand as you think.” He visibly turned shy again as his hands went up toward her breasts. </p>
<p>“Please,” Jane said quietly. “I think it would suit us both to take our fill.” </p>
<p>She watched the quiver of his brows, the nervous set to his mouth. His hands retreated to the safety of her hips, petting even as his eyes never strayed from her cleavage. </p>
<p>Time to take matters into her own hands. Literally. </p>
<p>“For the love of all that is holy, Robert,” Jane, “touch them.” She grabbed his hands with force and laid them over her bodice, yanking the material down to expose both her nipples.</p>
<p>Robert let out a curiously small sound, neither a breath nor a gasp, like all the air had left him. The sound went directly to her quim.</p>
<p>“Lovely,” he said shakily. She pressed his hands down, massaging a little. </p>
<p>“Pinch,” she said simply, and moved her hands to his hair. </p>
<p>He did so with a concentration more seen at the chessboard than the body. Jane smoothed her hands through his thick hair. “So much hair,” she murmured, “and such a lovely color. You should wear dark green all the time, everywhere.” </p>
<p>“If you’re thinking about clothes, I need to reapply myself,” he said, and sank his mouth to her breast. The suction was… Her hands buried in his hair and tugged at his scalp sharply. </p>
<p>“To the bedroom with you, then,” she gasped, pulling him up by the hands.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Her servants had all wisely retired for the night. </p>
<p>This crossed Jane’s mind approximately once as she and Robert tore their way down the hallway. She stepped out of her shoes somewhere near the ornamental table with the heirloom vase; his cravat fluttered down to land at a doorway. </p>
<p>Her bedroom was at the end of a long hallway charmingly laid with paper of birds fluttering between flowers. She pulled him in, stepping backward until her knees hit the bed. </p>
<p>Her eyes roamed up to his for a moment before darting to the now-naked expanse of throat and chest. Her fingers brought his up to the buttons. When Robert obligingly ran down the buttons, she brought her mouth and teeth to his neck, determined to bruise. </p>
<p>“All the way down, please,” Jane murmured. “Then your trousers.” She felt the gulp of him swallowing hard against her mouth. Her teeth worried the mark that was turning a satisfying reddish color under her ministrations. He’d leave with a chain around his neck, she was determined. He would be able to touch the way she owned his virginity. </p>
<p>“Do you know what I’m doing right now?” </p>
<p>“Y-yes,” he said. His hands finished with the buttons. She covered his hands with hers and pushed his shirt slowly off his shoulders, down his arms. But her mouth stayed close to his neck. </p>
<p>“What am I doing?”</p>
<p>“You’re leaving marks,” he said, voice trembling into a break. </p>
<p>“Mm,” she agreed. “I am marking you. You will see these in the mirror as you’re dressing yourself, and you’ll think about my mouth. You’ll think about what we’re doing.”</p>
<p>“You can’t…” he broke off. </p>
<p>“I can’t what?” She moved away slightly. </p>
<p>“No, no, no,” he said quickly. “No, go back to it, please. Talking like that makes it so hard to think.” </p>
<p>“You’re the one who accused me of having too many thoughts in my head earlier,” she said playfully, and then gave an extra-hard suck. He moaned. Four. Five. Six. Seven, for luck. </p>
<p>“Seven marks,” she whispered, stepping away to slip out of her dinner dress. She was left in her shift, stockings, and little else. Given that her shift had already been compromised quite completely earlier and her breasts left out, there was little hidden from view. She shrugged, a tiny movement, and pulled it over her head in one decisive motion. </p>
<p>In for a penny, in for a pound. </p>
<p>It had not occurred to Jane to be conscious of the scars, stretches, and hips like a violin that motherhood had left on her until exactly that moment. Only maids and doctors had seen as much of her since she’d had little James. </p>
<p>But Robert moved in, stepping entirely out of his own clothing to do so. His hands went to her sides, the same motion he’d made earlier repeating. Skin to skin. </p>
<p>She looked into his face. He looked overawed, drunk. Soothed, she allowed herself to drink in his body. He was built like he’d spent time out of doors helping the harvest, thick arms and strong shoulders, a back built to carry. And then: her prize. </p>
<p>Jane privately wished herself joy. The man had a divine cock. </p>
<p>“You’re beautiful,” she said, fitting fingers to the chain of bruises around his neck, and brought him back with her to fall to the bed. </p>
<p>It was a tangle of limbs, at first. Robert was extremely shy of his prick touching her in any capacity. The urge to apologize for its hardness, its bobbing to and fro against her thigh, was writ large on his face. </p>
<p>“Beautiful,” she repeated, and trailed her hands down his body. Truly, his cock deserved homage. She settled properly atop him.</p>
<p>Harder than she’d expected, and hotter. Jane had long since tried to ban thoughts of the late Lord Winewood from her bedroom, but comparisons simply burst into her brain. Winewood had been quick, mercifully so. Cordial. They’d had a glass of wine before, she thought, bringing her eyes up to Robert’s, watching the way his eyes glassed over as he followed her hands down his hips, slowly trailing down his pelvis. She feinted to his thighs. He let out his breath all at once. A glass of wine, companionable chat, and then a brief jaunt to her bed. The wet spot she would avoid in the night until her maids stripped her bed linens in the morning. And then James had come, and they’d had no need to continue.</p>
<p>Robert’s thigh muscles tensed under her hands. His hands lay at his sides, all attempts at touching her halted under his own eagerness. Men, Jane thought fondly. Fondly enough. </p>
<p>Men were such easy creatures, she thought. And she brought her hands to his cock. </p>
<p>Proven correct, Robert’s hips jolted upward into the touch. She twisted one hand into the action. He cursed. Winewood had been so formal, had saved his expletives for his own lovers --</p>
<p>“Jane?” </p>
<p>“You’re somewhere else,” he said softly. </p>
<p>Jane hummed quietly, in assent. Then she said, “Touch me, too. Keep me here with you.” Then she smiled, squeezing his base gently. He hissed, even as his right hand went to cup the base of her neck. He pulled her hair half out of its coiffure, stroking it between his fingers. His left hand drew her in even closer, so her hands on his cock were between them, belly to belly.</p>
<p>“Perfect,” she said. No comparisons could be made for this. There was no ghost between them now. She resumed stroking, twisting up every other upstroke, until he was panting in quick, pleading noises. </p>
<p>She took one hand from his cock, grabbed his from where he still gripped her side, and led it to her entrance. She was plenty ready; close as they were, she had been bracing her privy part against his thigh and rubbing steadily. There was time to teach him to touch her there, too. Plenty of time. The thought brought another gush of wetness forth. </p>
<p>She watched him gasp, the way his blush went blotchy and spread down his chest and to his ears. Oh, promising. </p>
<p>“You like that?” She led one finger closer, brought it into herself, swivelled smartly. </p>
<p>“I do,” Robert half-gasped. “I really, really do.” </p>
<p>“Taste it,” she whispered. </p>
<p>He groaned, and brought his hand to his mouth. She positioned herself atop him, and guided his cock home with his finger still in his mouth. </p>
<p>It stretched her, stung in a welcoming way. Jane tried to stop the needy whimper that fell out of her, but it fell between them like a siren song to Robert. His head fell back to her pillows, and he pumped in fully. </p>
<p>“My god,” he said. “My <em> god </em>.” </p>
<p>Jane let her forehead fall to his clavicle, grunting in agreement. Adjusting to the stretch -- the man had a prick as thick as the rest of him -- took all her concentration. She tentatively swivelled again, as she had on his finger. </p>
<p>Robert fairly shook underneath her. “Fuck,” he groaned with feeling. </p>
<p>“Yes,” said Jane. That was what was happening. Thought was far. Feeling was closest. She was prick-full. Her hips moved side to side, a sway that upped the heat that had been a constant simmer. </p>
<p>The heat turned to a flame as she moved her hand between them. It was less pain and more pleasure now. It wouldn’t take her long; years of long practice had made the art of <em> la petite mort </em>simple to find. </p>
<p>Robert moved in unsteady, slow thrusts. He seemed lost, though his hands had moved to grip her hips as with his life. His head was thrown back, eyes shut. It wouldn’t be long for him, either -- and then -- </p>
<p>The heat and the fill and the company overtook her, and she spasmed around Robert. Jane sunk her teeth into his shoulder, biting down firmly, the rooted connection enhancing the fever running through her. </p>
<p>And then he filled her, too, calling out her name as though wrung from his soul, and that… That was something she would have to remember for later. Many laters. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>After, Robert held her. She could hardly begrudge him that. They were both sweat-laced and breathing heavily, so it felt like she rested her head on the side of a steadily-beating drum. </p>
<p>“This was not what I expected,” Robert said finally. </p>
<p>“My bedroom?” She smiled against his neck. She looked up the canopy of her four-poster, imagining the space from his perspective. What might it say about her that it was so deep and dark, all reds and browns and gold like the inside of a heart?</p>
<p>He chuffed out a breath. “The loving, you silly. I had expected to… have you from behind, like animals, or perhaps with you lying still.”</p>
<p>“It often is like that,” Jane admitted. “The second, though I am certain some do prefer the first. My prior experience was mostly laying down and waiting for the gentleman to finish his exertions.</p>
<p>“You are not disappointed with the... unexpected nature of this, are you?” Jane was glad he could not look her in the eye. </p>
<p>“No!” He held her a little tighter for a moment. “No. But. It’s only — is this <em> allowed </em>?” </p>
<p>Jane could not help it. She laughed, but soothed his pride with a hand rubbing circles into his chest. “Yes, I should say so. Or where does it specify in the holy book preferred methods of sexual congress?”</p>
<p>To his credit, and her amusement, he actually appeared to consider this question. </p>
<p>“Surely the Old Testament specifies it somewhere,” he said.</p>
<p>“Scholars,” Jane said. “My late husband was obsessed with the qualities of his horses and his vineyards, and here you are pondering the correct way to —“</p>
<p>He blushed. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Jane dreamed a memory that night. </p>
<p>“Jane, stop hovering in the doorway. You may come in, there’s a dear.” Jane’s mother gestured her in, knocking the maid fixing her hair with her elbow. </p>
<p>“That didn’t miss my hair, did it?” </p>
<p>“No, ma’am,” the maid said through a mouthful of pins.</p>
<p>Jane stepped closer, halting beside the chaise diagonal from her mother’s vanity. She did not sit down. She knew better than to do so without an invitation. </p>
<p>“You shall do this someday yourself, Jane,” her mother said. Her eyes roved over the feathers for her hair, the silvered tin of rouge and the crushed pearl powders. “Sometimes this is the most enjoyable portion of the evening.” </p>
<p>Jane eyed the feathers, pure white. </p>
<p>“The marriage mart has few charms, my dear, but the dress is divine. And once you are married, you may dress as elegant as you like. I think we shall let you have a touch of rouge for your lips once you’re out — so pale, child! — but then you may indulge as I do.” Her mother cast a critical eye over her hair. </p>
<p>“Use the tongs on that curl again. Yes, thank you. Wouldn’t do to fall out at the opera. And Jane, once you’ve made a match, then you may really play at love. A husband is one thing, but there are many other ways to spend your heart.” </p>
<p>Her mother turned her gaze to her for the first time, and reached out a hand. Jane stepped forward to catch it, soft and nearly as small as her own. </p>
<p>“What do you mean?” Jane’s voice was unsure. Mother generally let her know if she would accept questions, but Jane was so confused.</p>
<p>“You shall learn in due course. Once you are married, as long as you are in London, you shall always find a way to be free.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But not a fortnight after her marriage, Jane had been packed off to Winewood Hall, and it had been over seven years before she would ever see freedom for herself. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>She woke as abruptly as the memory had come upon her.</p>
<p>Robert, beside her, was asleep still. She propped herself up on an elbow, studying him. One lock of hair fell over his brow untidily in sleep. His mouth was slightly open, one arm reaching for her warmth in his sleep.</p>
<p>She would never marry him. </p>
<p>She turned away to face the window, but never quite fell back asleep. Just before dawn, Robert woke, making the sort of sleepy, half-inquisitive noise a person does when waking in unfamiliar environs. </p>
<p>He slipped out of bed quietly, apparently thinking she was still asleep, to use the facilities. </p>
<p>Jane hoped he would leave. She knew he would not. </p>
<p>He returned, of course, touching a gentle, too-gentle, hand to her shoulder. She turned over at the touch, blinking heavily as though just roused. “I should go before dawn breaks.”</p>
<p>“Yes, that’s wise,” she said. </p>
<p>It was in his eyes: his hope, his happiness. She could see the church, the wedding breakfast, all there. </p>
<p>“This was lovely,” she said politely. “I believe I shall have you back here some time.” </p>
<p>His arm drew back slightly. “Yes,” he said, a question, quiet, in his voice. “Yes, it was lovely.” </p>
<p>“I will write you,” Jane said determinedly. </p>
<p>“See that you do.” He finished putting on his boots. “I’ll just… get my coat and go.”</p>
<p>Jane made an affirming noise, falling back into bed. She heard the click of the door behind him.</p>
<p>She closed her eyes.</p>
<p>Having a lover and having her freedom. </p>
<p>Surely her mother had implied it was meant to feel good to watch a man leave the morning after, to know the day ahead was one’s own. Surely she should fall back asleep, or lay abed, and not call him back to share a breakfast tray.</p>
<p>Love play was not love. The bed was the bed, and nothing more. </p>
<p>Biting her lip, an old habit she had trained herself out of years ago, Jane threw her head into her pillow and wallowed the whole morning away. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't think there's any Regency-to-modern that needs to be explained out this time! I did spend a little time googling regency underwear though.</p>
<p>Also, I know they're practicing unsafe sex here. This is not an endorsement of that and there will be no pregnancy in this story.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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